


Jukebox

by sinemoras09



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Dark, Drabble Collection, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-30 20:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinemoras09/pseuds/sinemoras09
Summary: Scenes from after Arthur becomes the Joker. Post-movie. No spoilers.





	1. Beating

They slammed him against the wall. Joker's arms and legs collapsed like firewood, and the back of his head smashed into the plaster.

They watched as Joker curled up into himself. A reflexive movement. The lead hitman went up to him and kicked him against the ribs, swinging one steel-toed boot hard into the tender underside of his stomach. Purple welts bloomed on the side of Joker's face until the cuts split open, blood running down the side of his temple.

"You think you're so goddamn funny," the hitman said. He shoved a gun against Joker's temple, jabbing it against the cut. "Well take a look at this, asshole. Who's the funny one now?"

Joker looked. Even now, his control was perfect. The hitman stared at Joker and saw how his mouth stretched into a slow, wide grin.

Joker started laughing. A slow, rolling laugh, something like laughing or sobbing, until it surged forward in a violent cackle.

Joker's arm shot out, grabbing the hitman by the wrist and yanking him forward. The hitman staggered. Joker shoved the barrel of the hitman's gun against his forehead, laughing.

"Do it," Joker said. "Do it. I dare you. Pull the fucking trigger."

Joker was laughing. Laughing like it hurt to breathe, throat tight and voice erupting in harsh half-gasps. He laughed and the laughter seemed sharp and piquant, electrocuting his insides until he was coughing up blood.

The hitman took a step back. Joker kept laughing. Hysterically, uncontrollably laughing.

"Do it!" Joker said. "Do it! Pull the fucking trigger! The fuck are you waiting for? _Kill me_."

The metal beam rolled where they had dropped it, the blood-smeared metal picking up bits of dirt and gravel before it settled just beside Joker's forearm.

They ran. They were supposed to rough him up, just supposed to scare him. But the Joker was psychotic and so they fucking ran.

Joker kept laughing. He clutched his side and pushed himself upright, laughing even as tears streamed down his face, tears dripping down his chin and mixing with makeup and old dried blood.


	2. Shower

The knob to the shower was rusted; there was a sound of metal scraping against metal as he turned the knob.

The shower head sputtered, then opened, a weak stream of brownish water hitting the back of the tub. Slowly, Joker stepped back, pulling off his coat and tossing it to the side. It landed on the bathroom floor with a dull thud, the thick crimson fabric stained with blood.

The orange vest was next. With difficulty, Joker began undoing the buttons. His fingers were clubbed and his nails were chewed roughly. There were smudges of dirt beneath his fingernails. 

He pulled the vest off, then unbuttoned his shirt. A splash of royal blue, the color of Prozac, soiled and stained with sweat. Behind him, the shower burbled. He glanced up at the shower head, which was still sputtering water.

Vest, shirt, pants. They dropped onto the floor, discarded. As each layer fell, the bumps of his spine became more pronounced; the sharpness of his shoulders. The dull pallor of his naked skin.

Joker stepped into the shower and lifted his head, greasepaint and blood sluicing down his face.

The bathroom was dark and grimy, and the only light was from a sickly yellow bulb above the mirror. Joker turned his head and could see Arthur staring back at him, the bruises under his eyes and the haggard wasteland of his body no longer hidden.

He didn't laugh. This was a good thing: he didn't care.


	3. Playground

Even though Gotham was a shithole, there were still children playing at the park.

The stench had grown unbearable; in the mornings, elementary kids and their parents held their noses, walking briskly to school. The stacks of garbage were piled high and threatening to tip over, and already a putrid lake of garbage juice was starting to seep around the corners of the school.

"Fuck," one parent said, and another parent nodded, irritated. Wordlessly they pushed the tattered black bags against the brick wall, shoving garbage into piles away from their children.

Children squealed, flying off swing sets and lunging down slides, playing tag beneath the neon-pink dick that was graffiti'd on the wall.

*****

Sometimes, a man would stand at the edge of the park.

"Do you wanna see a magic trick?" he'd ask, and the kids would rush toward him, faces bright and eager. The man stooped like a comma, showing them.

"Who's your kid?" a parent would ask, and the man would blink, then mumble, not looking at them. The parents would frown and the man would awkwardly start to laugh, the sound rolling away from him, growing sharper and gaining momentum.

"I'm sorry," he'd say, and he'd show them his card. "I have a condition."

"Don't talk to him," the parents would say, and they'd yank their children by the arms.

****

It was nighttime and the playground was empty. The swing sets were silhouetted by the orange glow of a city on fire.

The kid had been there for a few hours now; he bounced a ball, waiting for his mom to come home from her second shift. In the distance there were sirens, but the kid was used to it. He picked up a broken plank and pretended it was an airplane, holding out his arms as he played with the wood.

A dog barked; the kid turned, startled. A man was standing by the chain-link fence, watching him.

"Are you a clown?" the kid asked. He dropped the piece of wood, wandering over.

The man nodded. "I am," the man said. He did a little shuffle, then pulled out a bouquet of flowers.

The kid giggled. The man handed him the wand.

Something clattered. The boy bent over as the clown reached down.

It was a gun. The clown put his finger to his lips, then made a big show of hiding it. He winked at the kid and slipped it into his pocket. Then he reached into his sleeve and pulled out another bouquet of flowers. The kid giggled, delighted.

The man danced. He stepped one foot around the other, then did a pirouette. The kid giggled. The man bowed, and a trickle of blood dripped down his temple.

The kid stared. The man realized he was bleeding, then widened his eyes in mock surprise. He touched his fingers to his head, then made an exaggerated shocked face. Two wide eyes and a mouth like an "o." The kid squealed happily as the man dotted the blood and added it to the make-up on his nose.

Sirens blared. In the distance, the rioters were screaming. But the man did a little dance, and the kid giggled and clapped his hands.

The man stopped. The kid was smiling, his face wide and trusting, beaming up at him. The man looked down, and the rims of his eyes were dark and shining.

And then he began to laugh. The kid laughed too.

"David?" The kid turned and saw his mother running toward the courtyard. "David, who are you talking to?!"

"Mommy, look! I saw a clown!"

"What?" his mother said. The kid turned, but the clown was gone.


End file.
